MONOLITH

by Shaun Hutson

  The fork tore into the concrete behind him, driven deeper by the continued forward momentum of the truck itself, the engine of which was revving madly now, filling his ears along with his own screams. He clawed helplessly at the fork that was skewering him, aware that his own blood was spouting warmly over the metal prong and making it slippery. Not that he’d have been able to free himself anyway because the truck itself was still shuddering as it revved, smoke rising from the rear wheels as the entire machine now shook and vibrated as it continued to try and move forward, the fork digging deeper into the concrete beyond Reed’s torn body.

  Like an insect pinned to a board Reed hung there, impaled on the fork, his legs kicking madly, his feet a couple of inches from the blood spattered concrete floor. After less than half a minute even that perfunctory movement stopped as his body went into a series of small shudders and his attempts to drag himself free stopped. Blood loss and shock overtook him rapidly. The ground around him was puddled with crimson now, gouts of it still spurting from the wound that had wrought so much damage. When he tried to suck in a breath there was a rattling sound as the inhalation rattled inside his torn lungs and blood was pumping from his mouth, spilling down his chin and muffling the sounds he was trying weakly to make.

  The engine of the fork lift had ceased; the only sound in the underground car park was the ever present rumble of the pneumatic drill. But it was joined suddenly by something else. A shout of horror and surprise. Then the sound of frantic footsteps as others ran towards the scene of carnage. But Alan Reed heard none of those other sounds. His last thought had been of his daughter. And then, there had been nothing at all.

  SEVENTEEN

  The doorbell played ‘Oh Susanna’ when it was pressed.

  Not a simple two tone chime or a buzzer. No, not this doorbell it played a tune. Jessica Anderson stood beside the door and listened to the electronic anthem as she waited for the black painted barrier to be opened. She took a last drag on her cigarette, tossed the butt under the nearby hedge and dug hastily in her pocket for the pack of mints she kept there. She stuffed one into her mouth to cover the odour of tobacco and continued to wait for the door to be opened.

  She was about to press the button again when there was movement on the other side and she heard several locks and bolts being undone all to the accompaniment of low muttering. Jess smiled, the gesture broadening when the door was finally opened.

  ‘Hello, Mum,’ Jess said and stepped across the threshold.

  The diminutive woman who embraced her was a little over five feet tall and Jess had to stoop slightly to hug her. Margaret Anderson held her as tightly as her thin arms would allow and didn’t seem to want to let go. When she finally did she beamed at Jess and patted her shoulders.

  ‘Come in, dear,’ she said, warmly, pushing open the door to the sitting room.

  Jess made her way in, moving past some framed photos of deceased relatives and a sign that proclaimed GOD BLESS THIS HOUSE.

  Once inside the small but welcoming room she lifted the plastic bag she held in one hand and shrugged guiltily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum but I’ve brought some washing with me,’ she confessed. ‘It’s not much but I didn’t get time to nip to the launderette. I’ve been busy.’

  ‘That’s fine, dear,’ her mum told her. ‘I’ll do that before you go.’ Margaret took the bag from her and moved into the kitchen which was where the tempting aroma of cooking food was coming from.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ Jess said again. ‘Other kids bring their mum’s flowers when they visit. I bring dirty washing.’

  Margaret waved away the comment and began stuffing the contents of the plastic bag into a washing machine as Jess glanced at the table in the middle of the kitchen. It was set for the two of them just as it was every Sunday lunchtime. The space close to the backdoor where her father would normally have sat was vacant as it had been since his death. No one else was to sit there, Margaret saw to that. Jess glanced at the large black cabinet on the other side of the room and saw a framed picture of him in there dressed in his army uniform. The photo was flanked by other pictures, mainly of her at various stages of growing up, and by the kind of paraphernalia her mother had collected over the years. Two small porcelain greyhounds so beloved by her father stood sentinel over the entire collection even though one had undergone a spot of surgery to its front leg involving cellotape and superglue.

  ‘Dinner won’t be long,’ Margaret announced slamming the door of the washing machine and starting it up with the press of a button. She turned again and embraced Jess and this time it was she who felt as if she didn’t want to let go. ‘I’m so pleased to see you,’ her mother said as they parted. She turned towards the worktop behind her and dropped teabags into the large teapot there. ‘The kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Well you go and sit down in the living room and I’ll make the tea,’ Jess insisted, placing one hand on her mother’s shoulder and guiding her out of the kitchen. Almost reluctantly Margaret nodded then retreated from the room while Jess made tea, careful to put her mother’s in the same porcelain cup and saucer that she always had it in. Also perched on the worktop close to the teapot was a third cup, a slight chip in the lip of it. It had been her father’s. There was an Apostle spoon perched on the saucer as if it was about to be used but of course she knew that it never would be again. Jess swallowed hard and carried the teas into the living room where her mother was seated beside the gas fire.

  Jess sat down on the small sofa opposite and took a sip of her tea.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t ring earlier in the week, Mum,’ she said. ‘Things have been a bit mad with work.’

  ‘That’s fine, Jess, I know how busy you are. Don’t you worry about me.’

  ‘But I do,’ Jess said, trying to force a laugh. ‘I do worry.’

  ‘I went out on Thursday to do my shopping,’ Margaret told her. ‘But other than that I’ve been here all week. There’s nothing for me to go out for otherwise.’

  ‘But at least you get some air, Mum. It’s a bit of exercise for you too.’

  Margaret wrinkled her nose and took a sip of her tea.

  ‘I’m a bit old for exercise, dear,’ she said. ‘I am sixty-nine you know.’

  ‘I know Mum, that’s why I worry about you.’

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me,’ Margaret insisted.

  Jess smiled and sipped her tea.

  They sat in silence for a moment, Jess glancing first at her mother and then at the empty chair on the far side of the room. Motes of dust turned lazily in the air around it, highlighted by the shafts of sunlight that were lancing through the bay window. Beneath the window was a dark wood bookcase and propped on it were several framed photos, most of them of Jess herself at various stages of her life. Most were school photos but there were also some of her with friends, taken on holiday, at work. Seemingly everywhere she thought, smiling. Other family portraits framed those of her and there were more pictures dotted around the room like fading memories.

  ‘That’s a terrible photo of me,’ she said, getting to her feet and crossing to the array of pictures. She lifted one in particular, taken when she was in her early teens. She had braces and spots and there was a small hole in the neck of her school jumper which had been carefully and expertly darned but was still visible.

  ‘They’re all lovely,’ her mother said. ‘The one next to it was your dad’s favourite.’

  Jess nodded and glanced quickly at the picture of herself and her father as if to look for more than a fleeting second was to cause too much pain. They were both smiling broadly in it, arms around each other. It had been taken five years ago although Jess couldn’t quite remember where. It seemed like a lifetime to Jess and she wished she could have that time over again.

  ‘You know what it is today, don’t you?’ Margaret said, quietly, replacing her cup on the table next to her with a shaking hand.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ Jess said without looking at her mother. She sucked in a
weary breath and made her way back to the sofa where she sat down gently.

  ‘You can say it you know, dear,’ her mother went on.

  Jess merely nodded.

  ‘It’s one year to the day that your dad died,’ Margaret intoned.

  EIGHTEEN

  Jess nodded.

  ‘I said …’ Margaret began.

  ‘I know what the date is, Mum,’ Jess said a little too sharply. She swallowed hard and took another sip of her tea.

  ‘It was a merciful release in the end,’ Margaret said, quietly.

  ‘Mum, do we have to talk about it?’

  Margaret looked sheepishly at her daughter then shook her head silently. She could see the pain on Jess’s face but there was something else there. A look she hadn’t seen before and couldn’t identify now. The older woman paused feeling almost guilty that she’d opened the subject.

  ‘I know it’s hard, Jess,’ Margaret went on, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘You were the one who had to put up with it, Mum,’ Jess said. ‘You were the one who was with him twenty-four hours a day. I wasn’t here enough, I know that.’

  ‘But you were busy, dear.’

  ‘I was always busy. I should have made time to be with him. To help you and it wasn’t just that.’ Jess sucked in an almost painful breath. ‘I didn’t do enough to help with the funeral.’

  ‘It was all paid for by Dad’s policies, he had enough to cover the costs. What more could you have done?’

  ‘I could have paid for what he really wanted.’

  Margaret looked puzzled and leaned forward slightly in her chair.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she enquired.

  ‘He wanted to be buried, Mum, not cremated,’ Jess said. ‘You know that. We only had him cremated because it was cheaper. Because we couldn’t afford to give him the burial he wanted. I should have given you some money. I should have helped to pay for what Dad wanted, not settled for the cheap option.’

  ‘Dad and I agreed that he should be cremated. Towards the end we decided that would be best.’

  ‘He always used to say I don’t care what happens when I die but I want a stone on my grave, I want somebody to know I was here. I couldn’t even give him that.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Jess. Don’t blame yourself. And things changed towards the end. Dad changed too. The things he wanted were different. He would have been happy with the cremation and …’ Margaret allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘And what, Mum? Didn’t he always say he didn’t want to be alone? I thought we were going to have him buried with his parents but that never happened, did it?’

  Margaret lowered her gaze.

  ‘It couldn’t be helped, Jess,’ she said, softly. ‘We did everything we could.’

  ‘But it wasn’t enough, Mum,’ Jess murmured. ‘It wasn’t enough.’

  The two women sat in silence for a while then Jess cleared her throat.

  ‘I feel as if I’ve, I don’t know, betrayed him,’ she said, her voice catching.

  ‘Don’t be silly, dear,’ Margaret offered. ‘You didn’t do anything.’

  ‘No, that’s the trouble, I didn’t.’

  Again a heavy silence fell across the two of them, finally broken when Margaret got to her feet. She made her way towards the kitchen. Jess rose and followed her, the smell of cooking food filling the air.

  ‘You must remember the things Dad said,’ Jess went on.

  ‘I told you, Jess, towards the end he was different. He wanted different things. You can’t change any of that now.’

  ‘It doesn’t stop me feeling guilty about it.’

  Margaret turned to face her daughter.

  ‘There’s nothing for you to feel guilty about,’ she said with as much force in her voice as she could muster. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong. Neither of us did. It’s what Dad wanted.’

  ‘Well it’s too late to do anything about it now, isn’t it?’ Jess sighed.

  ‘How long have you been thinking about this?’

  ‘Since his funeral.’

  ‘Jess, you can’t think like that, dear, you really can’t. You’re not being fair on yourself.’

  Jess didn’t answer. She merely watched as her mother took vegetables from the pots on the hob and drained them, spooning out portions onto the waiting plates.

  ‘Why have you waited this long before you said something?’ Margaret enquired, placing more food on the plates.

  Jess shrugged.

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything at all,’ she answered. ‘I wish I hadn’t.’

  ‘You were right to say what was on your mind. It doesn’t do any good bottling things up.’

  ‘And what good is it going to do telling you how I feel? It isn’t going to change anything, is it?’

  Margaret put a plate full of food in front of Jess then sat down opposite.

  ‘It’s better to talk, dear,’ Margaret assured her. ‘You always bottled things up even when you were growing up, I know that.’

  ‘I used to tell Dad sometimes if something was bothering me,’ Jess smiled. ‘I suppose I just miss being Daddy’s girl.’

  ‘You two could always find things to talk about,’ Margaret said. ‘He used to say you were more like mates than father and daughter.’

  ‘He always encouraged me no matter what I was doing.’ Jess smiled. ‘You did too, Mum.’ The words were almost like an afterthought.

  Margaret shook her head.

  ‘I know that, Jess but I know your dad was the one who really pushed you,’ she went on. ‘He wanted so much for you. He was so proud when you got your first job on a National paper. He said he’d known all along you’d do it. We always believed in you, you know that.’

  Margaret smiled.

  Jess just nodded.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with missing him, Jess,’ Margaret said, softly. ‘I do too.’

  Jess was about to start eating when she heard her mobile. She glanced down at it and saw that the caller i.d. was showing Spike. For a second she wondered about letting it go to voice mail but, as it kept ringing she finally snatched it up.

  Margaret watched her evenly across the table.

  ‘When?’ Jess said into the mouthpiece.

  Margaret chewed slowly on a piece of food, her eyes never leaving her daughter.

  ‘Is that all you know?’ Jess said, her expression darkening. There was more chatter at the other end of the line then Jess ended the call. ‘Mum,’ she sighed, looking at Margaret. ‘I’m going to have to go.’

  ‘Oh no, dear, not in the middle of dinner,’ Margaret said, wearily but Jess was already on her feet. ‘Can’t it wait?’

  Jess shook her head, trying to force a smile.

  ‘I wish it could,’ she said.

  They said a hurried goodbye and Jess paused on the doorstep.

  ‘I’ll ring you later, Mum,’ she said.

  ‘You ring me when you can, dear,’ Margaret said. ‘I know you’re busy. I just wish you didn’t have to rush off now.’

  Jess nodded, managed a smile then turned away without looking back. She didn’t think she could bear to.

  LONDON; 1933

  The windows hadn’t been smashed this time.

  No one had hurled bricks or lumps of stone at the glass but, as the old man stood gazing at the large window he was beginning to think that perhaps more of the destruction would have been preferable.

  There were several dozen thick gobs of phlegm spattered on the glass.

  He shook his head in silent disgust and reproach, incredulous that anyone could stoop to such foul depths. The thought of several people standing outside his shop and spitting on the windows was in many ways a more repulsive one than the image of some crazed mob hurling bricks and rocks. The pre-meditated loathing and accumulated hatred that such a gesture spawned was almost too vile to entertain.

  The old man felt a twinge of sadness that people could express their feelings in so base a manner. However, that sadnes
s was rapidly replaced by a growing feeling of anger. A rage that was difficult to contain. He was shaking gently as he stood inside the shop looking out through the phlegm mottled window.

  Two men passed by on the outside of the shop and glanced at the soiled glass with a look of disinterest. They could see the old man inside but they merely turned away when they met his gaze.

  Had they been two of the culprits he wondered? Had they been two of the many who had stood in front of his shop and spat on the windows? He had no way of knowing and he would never know.

  Carrying a bucket of warm water and a cloth he made his way out onto the pavement and set about cleaning off the sputum and mucus.

  The sun was shining and the old man could feel it beating down on the back of his neck as he worked to remove the filth. Every now and then he would step back and admire his handiwork; glad that the windows were beginning to sparkle again where he had cleaned them.

  In the centre of the window there was something else.

  Not sputum, not phlegm but something that had been painted onto the glass with quick and broad strokes of the brush. He glanced at it occasionally and shook his head, hoping that the warm water in the bucket would remove it but fearing that he might need something more powerful like turpentine or white spirit.

  It might have been put there by a child such was its simplicity.

  But behind that simplicity was a malice and fury that the old man had encountered before in his life but still found difficult to understand.

  A stick image of a hanged man adorned the middle of the window.

  Beneath were painted two words;

  YOU DIE

  He shook his head and set about cleaning them off.

  As he was wringing out the cloth in the bucket of water a man in his thirties walked past and kicked out at the metal container, knocking it over and spilling the water across the pavement, some of it spilling into the gutter. The old man didn’t even look at him. He could hear the muted laughter as the man passed by but the old man said nothing, he merely picked up the bucket and headed back inside the shop to re-fill the receptacle.